“You
want lunch?” Wally asked.
“Sure, I’m game. Where do you want to go?” she
asked bouncing in her car seat.
“Why
are you so excited because you think—lets me emphasize the word think—that
Brent Mitchell had an appointment?”
“Because,
I bet that is the night he went missing. Whoever he met probably killed Brent
and Pat Wilson.”
Wally
shook his head in disbelief.
“Okay
that my be a possibility. We’ll talk about it over lunch. Let’s go to the O’Malley’s
in Brookside. I’m up for some Irish stew.” Wally glanced at Samantha when she
didn’t respond. “What? You don’t want to go to O’Malley’s?”
“No,
it’s just that mom likes their Rueben.”
“Call
her and invite her to meet us. It’s not that far for her to drive.”
Samantha
thought about it for a few seconds, and then negated the idea.
“I
want some time to talk to you, and give some thought to my conversation with
Mrs. Mitchell.”
“You
think that went well.”
“Yeah—at
least for me. It brought back memories that I’d blocked out, and they returned
effortlessly.”
“That’s
good,” Wally said, giving her a questioning look.
“I
guess. It’s strange, Wally. I’m excited because Brent Mitchell had an
appointment, but even if he had an appointment with the person who killed him
and Pat Wilson, what difference does it make?”
“I
don’t know. Maybe it is confirming something, somehow, to you in your mind. Our
boy Johnny talked like Brent Mitchell was a real creep.” Wally reached over and
patted Samantha’s knee. “Was there anyone else that you talked to that night?”
Samantha
shrugged.
“I
can’t remember. I got pretty smashed out of my mind.” She pushed her hand
against her forehead. “Why am I so stupid at times?”
“Maybe
because you don’t take your medicine? And when you don’t take your medicine,
you make stupid mistakes sometime.”
Samantha’s
face turned a bright red.
“Dammit,
Wally, don’t you ever listen? That medicine makes me feel funny. I don’t like
it. I’ve told you that a hundred thousand times.”
Wally
was used to Samantha’s outbursts and continued driving as if nothing had
happened.
“There’s
new medicine, Sam.”
Wally
heard a loud grunt as Samantha folded her arms across her chest and stared
defiantly out the front window.
“Some
times you make me so mad, Wally. Damn you. Damn you, damn you, damn you. I am
so pissed.”
“You
asked the question, Sam. All I did was supply the answer. The doctor told you
at your last appointment that there were newer and better medicines.”
“I’m
never going to take you to another doctor’s appointment. I thought you were my
friend,” she grumbled.
They
drove the rest of the way in silence.
O’Malley’s
is a local Irish restaurant in Kansas City known for their fried catfish, Irish
stew and sandwiches. It caters to an older crowd. The minute you walk through
the double doors into the bar area, the smell of stale tobacco smoke is
overwhelming. It’s embedded in the wooden wall paneling. It has a nice
atmosphere like a local pub in London or Dublin. As they entered, a young woman
came from behind the bar to greet them. She was dressed in a white blouse, a
short black apron around her waist, and a pair of jeans. She flashed a toothy
smile as she approached.
“Two?”
she asked picking up a couple of menus.
“Yes,
please. We’d like to go to the back room,” Wally said.
The
wood floor squeaked under their feet as they walked in single file through one
dining area into the larger back room. A brighter area with a large fireplace
as the centerpiece of one wall and sat between two windows facing Wornall Road
as the low sound of a fiddle and penny whistle floated in the air. Wally
pointed toward a table by the window. It was early for lunch, but in another
half an hour, the big room would be teeming with the lunch crowd. Wally stepped
in front of Samantha and pulled a chair out for her and she promptly ignored
him and walked around to the bench seats that lined the wall and sat down.
The
waitress eyed both of them hesitantly before she asked for their drink order.
“What
would you like to drink?”
Wally
gestured to Samantha to go first.
“I’m
still looking. You go ahead, Wally.”
“I
want a Smithwick and a glass of water,” he said.
Samantha
smiled sweetly at the waitress.
“I’ll
take the same. Also, this will be on one bill,” she said pointing at Wally.
“Two
Smithwicks. Got it.”
The
waitress left.
Samantha
stared out the front window while Wally twiddled his thumbs as he aimlessly
swept the room to see whether he knew anyone. He didn’t. The staccato sound of
Samantha’s foot nervously tapping the floor seemed to penetrate the room, and
the few people eating lunch stopped to stare. Wally cleared his throat and
flattened his hands on the table.
“So,
tell me more about your conversation with Mrs. Mitchell,” he said.
The frozen
expression on Samantha’s face left little doubt in Wally’s mind that she was
still pissed. She turned back to the window and Wally focused his attention on
a man and woman who entered and took a table nearby. There was something
familiar about the woman, but Wally couldn’t place her. Probably in her
forties, the woman had blonde hair clipped in back. The man with her wore a
blue suit, white shirt and red tie. They both smiled when they saw Wally look
at them. Embarrassed, Wally bowed his head and waited for his drink to arrive.
As the waitress set his drink on the table he looked up and could have sworn
that the woman had taken his picture with her cell phone. The waitress smiled.
“Your
food should be ready in about ten minutes.”
She
left to attend to the man and woman.
“Sam,”
he whispered. “Does that woman look familiar to you?”
“What
woman?” she asked, swinging back around.
Wally
nodded his head to the right.
“I
mean it. Does that woman to my right look familiar to you?”
“It’s not
going to work, Wally. I don’t want to talk to you. You pissed me off, hurt my
feelings and I’m tired of it. Of all my friends, you are the meanest. My
friends notice it, too. They notice how mean you are to me.”
While
other men would shrink under Samantha’s sharp gaze, Wally was no stranger to
Samantha.
“Okay,
Sam. Let’s call some of these friends so I can find out in what way I’m mean to
you.” He pointed to her cell phone she’d placed on the table. “Go on, pick it
up and call them.”
“I
don’t want to, Wally. I don’t want to.”
Wally
shook his head in frustration.
“You
take the cake, Sam.”
“Well,
you take the cake, Wally,” she taunted.
“Okay,
I take the cake. Now, will you look at the woman at the other table? She looks
familiar to me. Does she look familiar to you?”
Closing
her eyes, Samantha took a deep breath and looked as if she were patiently
counting to ten. She peered through half closed eyes at the woman. Wally saw a
puzzled expression on her face.
“What’s
wrong? Do you know her?”
“She
looks like the woman in Starbucks. The only difference is she isn’t wearing any
glasses. She must have been waiting on that man. What a coincidence.”
“It’s
no coincidence. She took a picture of me with her cell phone,” Wally murmured.
“Oh,
get out of here. You’re just imagining things because I’m pissed at you.”
Samantha straightened and pointed a finger a Wally. “And I’m still pissed at
you.”
Chapter
22
The
waitress brought lunch and asked, “Will there be anything else?”
Wally
leaned over and motioned to her with his hand to come closer. She looked at him
warily.
“Do
you know those people at the other table?” he asked quietly.
A
man’s voice behind her said, “She won’t have to tell you anything.”
The
woman sat down beside a surprised Samantha and looked up at the waitress.
“Will
you bring our drinks over here? We want to talk to our friends.”
The
wide-eyed waitress nodded and quickly complied with the request before almost
running out of the room, revealing the man standing behind her. He looked
bigger as he slid onto the chair beside Wally.
“Who
are you?” Wally asked. “What do you want?”
“I think we’ll ask the questions, buddy,” the
man said roughly.
“Let’s
turn that question around.” The woman turned to Samantha. “Who are you, and why
did you go see Mrs. Mitchell today.”
The woman
reached in her purse and produced a badge.
Samantha
appeared as if she were about to have a panic attack.
“What’s
this all about?” Wally asked.
“We’ll
ask the questions, buddy,” the man, said. He pointed at the woman to continue.
“Let
me tell you,” Wally interrupted. “First, this is Samantha Kimsey and I’m Wally
Sikes. Sam wanted to talk to Mrs. Mitchell because she thought she may have
been the last person to see her husband.”
Samantha
sat in a daze as the woman detective leaned closer.
“We
got that on tape,” the woman said. “That did nothing but upset her. What was
your motive?” she asked Samantha.
“What
is going on?” Samantha pleaded. “All I did was talk to the woman because I
thought I may have been the last person to see her husband. That’s all.”
“Did
you know Brent Mitchell?” the man asked. When Samantha shook her head, the man
turned to Wally.
Wally
held his hands up, palms out.
“Never
met either.”
The
woman detective reached into her purse and pulled out a picture of an
attractive older woman in her fifties and from the looks of her stylish hair, a
professional woman.
“Have
you ever met this woman?” she asked. When Samantha mouthed no, she turned the
picture toward Wally.
“Nope.
I’ve never seen her before.”
“You
sure?” the woman detective asked with a sweep of the photo from Wally to
Samantha.
“What’s
her name?” Wally asked.
“Pat
Wilson.”
Samantha
turned to Wally.
“That’s
the woman that Johnny said disappeared the same time Brent Mitchell did.”
Wally
sighed and gave her a forced smile.
“Did
you know her?” the man asked.
Wally
rested his hands on the table.
“No,
we’ve never met her. When we asked the bartender about Brent Mitchell, he
mentioned her name. He thought Brent Mitchell had something to do with her
disappearance.”
The
woman detective leaned forward.
“Why
were you asking about Brent Mitchell?”
Samantha
shrunk away from the detectives, not knowing what to say.
“She
had a loft that she thought he might be interested in, so we went back to ask
Johnny if he knew him,” Wally said.
“And
that led to a conversation about Pat Wilson?” the man asked.
“Johnny’s
a talker.”
“Why
did he think Mitchell might have something to do with Pat Wilson’s
disappearance?”
Wally
shrugged his shoulders.
“l
have no idea. Johnny’s a talker.”
“Do
you know this woman?” the woman detective asked reaching into her purse again.
This
time they recognized the picture of Vickie Taylor.
“Just
what was in the papers,” Wally answered.
The
woman detective turned to Samantha.
“A
woman called the hotline and told us where we could find her body. Was that
you?”
“No—no,
it wasn’t me.”
“We
have a copy of her telephone call. I could get a court order to have you record
your voice for comparison.”
“I
didn’t call in. I didn’t know her!” Samantha screamed. “Why are you asking me
all of these questions? All I did was go see a woman because I was the last
person to see her husband.”
The
soft murmur of other customer’s voices was hushed by Samantha’s outburst. The
woman detective looked over her shoulder and then at Samantha.
“I am
going to leave my card. If you think of anything, call me or detective Hines.”
The
woman nodded to her partner. She pulled a card from her purse and handed it to
Samantha.
“Stacy
Myers, homicide detective,” Samantha read.
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